I like to tell stories. It's sort of my thing. Almost anything is funny if you look at it from the right angle.

As a mother, though, there are just some stories you really don't want to tell. Because they're unexplainable.

For example, I'd really like to tell you how, after dinner, the kids were playing in the basement and after I heard the thud *Thud!* and the scream *Bwahhh!*, I went running down to the basement to find my little baby girl in her cute little pink outfit and her sweet little ponytail standing in the middle of the floor with her hands over her face and so much blood oozing from in between her tiny little fingers that I figured her eenice little nose had to be broken. I'd like to tell you how, as I pried her fingers away from her face, that I saw more blood than I thought her whole body contained smeared up her nostrils and in her mouth. I'd like to tell you about wiping away the blood and watching her baby lip swell up to the size of, well, honestly, a big grape, but it seemed more like a baseball at the time. I'd love to explain that I finally, after a fudgesicle and a bottle, got her to let me look in her mouth and realized that her perfect little razor sharp baby teeth had made a grand entrance into her little upper lip at a shockingly bold sort of angle, and how she fell asleep right after all this, at about 7 o'clock, and has been asleep ever since, leading me to believe that she may very well have sustained the first of what I'm sure will be many concussions.

But, see, if I tell you all that, then you'll ask me how it happened and I will be left with no choice to tell you the answer, that answer that I will, myself, never fully understand.